August 20th, 2030, 2:01 pm

The completed fight lists were released at noon in the mess hall, by the doors to the backyard. A horde of recruits bolted to the monitors to search for their name, forming a bubble with no orderly fashion. Some left the crowd with their eyes to the floor and sunken shoulders, while others escaped with elation.

Hal and I have known who is in our bracket since early this morning. All it took was an inquiry from Sergeant Frost, and we were given the rundown of who we will have to fight in our personal tournament. No need for us to involve ourselves with that mess over by the monitors. I only care about one name, and the rest will fill itself in.

Leo Fedman is my opponent for the first round of the challenge. According to Hal, he is a top recruit who has a mean streak. A tame Luke Bradley, as he described. I'm not so sure that I'm comfortable with that comparison. That could mean anything, and Hal only knows about him through my stories. He doesn't know what I know about him.

I had the chance to speak to CJ during our down time after the island run this morning. I saw him walking around with some of his Stanville buddies when I caught up to him. I haven't seen him since Thursday night when we had our heart-to-heart in the cafeteria. The bandage had been removed on Sunday, right before dinner, but the scratch marks are still ominously etched into his arm.

As it turns out, CJ is in the same tournament bracket as Hal and I, but he is located on the other end. If I were to duel against him, it would have to be in the final round. Considering I have Hal on my side of the bracket and Craig Larsson controls his side, the odds of us every meeting to battle are little to none. Not that I would want to fight him, anyway. He would kick my ass.

Before our turn at the tournament can commence, we must stand beside the combat square with our competitor at our hip. So as I reminisce about what occurred after the test this morning, I am standing shoulder to shoulder with Leo. I should say neck to shoulder, though, since he seems to have a few inches on me. He has an average figure for someone my age, which doesn't exactly spike intimidation.

I can hear Hal and the kid he's battling behind me chatting it up like old pals. Meanwhile, Leo doesn't say a word. He keeps his face tight, focused on the recruits occupying the fighting square ahead of us. I won't dare open my mouth to speak to him. I don't want to rile up a decent opponent to make him a nightmare. If he's anything like Hal says he is, I should keep it shut.

CJ stands firm in front of me in the line. He'll be dueling on combat square eight, in the far northeast corner. Leo and I are headed to the one right beside his, in the most northwest spot. He has to fight Mai Rea, Hal's friend from when I first met him and when I nearly watched him drown. She, too, is a top recruit. CJ has known he was competing against her, and he has not been looking forward to it at all. She's that skilled, he claims.

Sergeant Lee proceeds down our line of recruits and examines us in position. "Bracket 21, as soon as this fight right here in front of you is done, make your way to your assigned square. We're trying to crank these out as fast possible."

Through the heads and shoulders of CJ, Mai, and the recruits in ahead of them, I can barely see the fight occurring on square one. I'll catch a glimpse of a body here and there as they dance around one another with various taunts. We were told not to cheer for people in the introduction to the test, so the gathering around the fight is dead quiet. The gulls twirling over our heads are louder than the humans below them.

The roar of victory erupts from the center of the assembly surrounding the square. That's our cue to get moving to our fighting positions. As we pick up the pace toward the sea, I gaze over at the scene that I hardly witnessed from my spot in line. One boy lies on the ground, squeezing every ounce of power he has left to push himself to his feet. Another boy is escaping the box and is greeted by his fans who were there to see him win. Corporal Keller approaches him with his clipboard. That boy is on his way to the semifinals.

What will it take to be noticed around here? I'm trapped in this highly talented bracket, and I can't move anywhere in it. If I defeat Leo, somehow, I have another gifted recruit waiting for me. I'll be fighting my second opponent with ten broken bones and a bloody nose. Only the champion of each bracket is in the top ninety-two. The rest follow. How they determine who is higher in that group, I don't know.

My bare feet step up on the rubbery concrete northwest combat square, and I take my defense on the left. Leo holds his spot on the right. We can't begin our fight until a supervising officer is at our side, watching for any illegal maneuvers. I crack my knuckles, gulping as my opponent does the same, glaring at me.

The way Leo and I will fight will hopefully be more disciplined than the one conducted between Luke and I in the shower room last week. I took fighting lessons on Friday with Hal, and the difference between the two styles was astounding. In this test, there is no kicking allowed, and no cheap shots to the crotch. Anything below the belt is frowned upon but do not result in disqualification. The fight is over when one person hits the ground or gives up. The next fight begins immediately once both winners of the same brackets have finished their battle.

Corporal Porter marches up to the seventh combat square with her clipboard in hand and whistle hanging in her mouth. "Leo Fedman and Slater Tross, yes?" She points her pencil into our names on the bracket. "Shake hands and move to opposite ends. Begin on my whistle. Good luck, guys."

I hold my hand out to him and he clenches it in his skeleton fingers. His jaw protrudes for a second before he turns away from me. He wants to get this over with. I'll try to make it nice and quick.

The whistle sounds and we step toward one another with our fists near our chins. I hold my left closer than my right, while he has his hands reversed. One of his fists is farther left than center, giving me the ability to see his nose and eyes of the void. Stringy black hair hangs over his forehead and his ears, making his iris' darker than they are typically.

Let him make the first move. It's better to have the ability to counter anything he throws at me than the initial hit. He flinches with his left hand, under his black eyes, then releases the right after he thinks I fell for his trick. I didn't. I catch his fist with the bones of my wrists. He could toss those punches all day, and I'll take them.

I lower my right arm and wind it back to gain power. I send my fist forward into his gut all in one motion. One second my hand is in front of my face and the next it's in his stomach. He tucks his hips under his chest and he brings his dominant arm around his waist. His face is wide open for me to wail on with only one other fist defending it.

But I don't.

I grab his shirt collar and pull him upright. I shove him toward his starting position and he regains his form and posture. He switches the orientation of his hands, which is unusual. People usually have a premeditated way that they defend, and I guess it's safe to say that Leo is ambidextrous in that sense. I wonder if he's as good on his left as he is his right.

We're back to the start of it. He must make the first strike before I can retaliate. He's a fighter of power, considering he seems to want to knock me out with a single punch. He sways left and right, trying to throw me off balance so he can throw one. I bounce softly on my toes, staying centered and not playing the victim of his mind games. All these things he does are a part of his plan to get that big punch on me.

He swats my fist closest to him away and copies my move of attacking the abdomen in a fluid movement. I deflect his attempt slightly, lightening the blow, but I still feel it deep in my stomach. I try not to send my shoulders over my legs to get off center because I doubt he will be as merciful. I pull my body upward and face him, shaking off the pain. The sunburn makes it worse.

Two can play at the tricks, Leo. I go for the finishing move we've both used, drawing my arm back. He retracts his arms to defend his waist again, and in his haste, left his face revealed. I won't give up this opportunity again. My fingernails break the skin of my palm and I swing wide to connect with his cheek. Some saliva spits out through his lips, and his head whips to the side. His body dives to the concrete.

Did I just win?

Through the rush that floods through me, I hear Porter's whistle faintly. I don't think I did anything wrong. I throw my hands up near my collarbone and back away from where Leo pushes himself off the ground. The Corporal rises to the square and overlooks my opponent.

"Winner: Slater. Your next opponent is Alan O'Shea. He is on his way from square six."

O'Shea? Is he related to the pool supervisor, Private O'Shea? That can't be good. If he was ranked in 29, who knows how good Alan could be. I think Hal told me about Alan once or twice. He is most definitely a top recruit, almost guaranteed a spot in the top ten. I heard he doesn't have as shitty of an attitude as Leo, apparently. He's just over-confident, which seems to be a trait of a lot of potential high ranks.

I reach down to Leo, who is on his knee now. He smiles and holds onto my hand as I heave him up to his feet. "Thank you, Slater. You're not that bad of a fighter. I'll tell Al-O to watch his ass. Good luck."

"Thanks, Leo. Good luck on the rest of your tests." I think Hal was quite wrong about the tame Luke Bradley thing. No way this kid has a "mean streak."

Leo waves to me and walks toward a boy coming to my square. He accompanies the kid, who I assume is this Alan O'Shea character, back to me.

I just realized that have seen Alan before, and it bothers me that I can finally put a name to a face. At the island run this morning, I stood beside a recruit who I could somewhat recognize because he had a similar face to someone else. Well, that was Alan, who has identical, general facial features to his brother, Dylan. I guess he's his brother. They share the same bird nose and numerous freckles on their cheeks. Shaggy hair the color of yams is buzzed down to add shape to their faces.

Alan takes his first steps onto the seventh square and approaches me with Corporal Porter going back to the grass. He sticks his hand out between us and I shake it. He streaks his fingers along my skin, leaving a dubious, deep red trail. My hand is frozen in mid-air, staring at what the fuck he just did. Sicko.

I think Hal may have had his judgments about these two mixed up.

"Alan O'Shea and Slater Tross, quarterfinal round. The fight begins on my whistle."

I take my lucky left side and Alan stomps to the right. I'll teach him to rub blood on me. I don't even know if it's even his. What if it belongs to the kid he just fought? Did he ask the kid if he could use their blood as a disgusting scare tactic? Who just does that?

Corporal Porter blows the silver instrument and I stab my palms with my fingernails again. I can't believe he did that. Focus, Slater. Right over left. Finish this fight and tell Hal and CJ about it later. Take care of business first.

Strangely enough, Alan turns his back to me and reaches over his shoulders. I don't know what he's trying to do until he hooks a finger under my collar. At the bend of his knees, he tugs my shirt, still fixing to get under my right arm. He's attempting to hurl me over his shoulder, and I won't allow that. This isn't judo. Not only that, but his noodle arms aren't budging me.

I push him away from me and he releases his hold on me. I don't know what is wrong with Alan. I don't know who he defeated in the first round, because this is just pathetic. So far, Leo was the stronger opponent. This? This is a joke. And he's a top recruit? What the actual hell?

He lays one hand over his waist and another over his mouth, creating a window for me to hit his chest. I know how much that hurts, so I refrain from doing it for the time being. But he's being a total idiot. Someone needs to put him in his place. I jolt my fist forward toward the sternum, but his top arm slides down to block it. In the same sequence, he sends that hand toward my face, and I duck.

He's going to counter like I did with Leo, and I need to transition to making effective first moves. His form is skewed to all hell, but somehow he can manage it. I'll have to work up some kind of combination attack to land a devastating blow. Once I throw that punch again, I have to block the retaliatory punch and aim for the face with a second punch from my left. It will have to work. I don't think he'll be expecting it.

I replicate my attack from seconds ago, and as expected, his wiper-like arm swats it before it can come in contact with his ribs. He swings the top arm my way, but my free right hand anticipates the counter and knocks it away. I squeeze my fingers in my left hand as hard as I can as I send my fist to the heavens. It cracks his jaw first, though, and his head shoots back for a moment. The arm guarding his waist leaves its patrol to examine the state of his chin.

Why not the right hand if it's free? Go for the cheek. Or the beak. The chest is wide open for me to take advantage of. I can finish this right now. I draw my arm back at an angle, unsure of the destination of the fist.

"Wait, stop!" Alan wails, protecting his face. My arm remains holstered behind me.

Porter's whistle cries out for the fourth time, and my heart drops. I hope I didn't something wrong this time. Do I get disqualified for breaking his jaw? I could have punched him anywhere, but I guess I chose my placement incorrectly. Please, Porter. I didn't mean it. It was mostly an accident.

She says two words that ease my mind. "Winner: Slater."

I did it! I have no clue how. I never thought I had the strategy to be a fighter, but I guess I learn new things about myself every day. If someone asked me two weeks ago to fight someone the way I did just now, I don't think I could. What is this new kind of strength I have found in myself?

Huh. I didn't do any of this. Who are you and what have you done to the Slater Tross I know?

Because of Corporal Porter's proximity to me, I just retain a smile for Roarke's comment. It's even better to hear that he had nothing to do with this. He didn't give me any kind of super strength. I didn't see my mark glow at all. That may not seem like a big deal to anyone else, but it means the world to me. Things are changing, and for the first time in a while, I feel great.

Porter turns to me, handing me the clipboard with my bracket. "Congratulations, Slater, you will be competing in tomorrow morning's combat tournament. You will be required to wake up by six and be out by the combat squares by seven. From there, we will begin the semifinal rounds.

"Thank you, Corporal. I appreciate it." I keep my face the same as I observe the bracket. On the right end, the semifinals will consist of none other than Craig Larsson and Mai Rea. CJ couldn't pull off the upset, but unfortunately for him, he expected it. I hope she wins.

My grip loosens on the clipboard as if I just read that I received the OLC. The left end of the bracket follows me and has three other names crossed out below me, Alan O'Shea and Leo Fedman included. Both were products of my fight with them. But I glance up at the highest seed in the upper half of the bracket and I follow the only name that has not been crossed out yet. The name of the one I must fight in the semifinal round. My eyes dry out from staring at the bold, print letters.

"I-I can't do it." I croak out. My fingers tremble, threatening to drop the clipboard.

"Is everything all right, Slater?" Corporal Porter takes the records back.

I have to fight Hal van Lester.